


your burning mouth, your blazing eyes

by Cerberusia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Masturbation, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post S2. Jackson is finally a werewolf, finally the best: but, as the song goes, <i>high flying adored, where do you go from here?</i> His subconscious points him in Derek's direction. Sexually.</p>
<p>(Or, Derek has Issues and Jackson doesn't see what the big deal about him being underage is. It's not like they don't break plenty of <i>other</i> laws).</p>
            </blockquote>





	your burning mouth, your blazing eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TW Reverse Bang, for emmyxogast's lovely artwork [here](http://emmyxogast.livejournal.com/42967.html).

Becoming a werewolf is like a _revelation_. It's like the world's suddenly in colour, every cliche he can think of. The smells most of all - he can't identify most of them yet, but when he gets home he _immediately_ knows who's been in his room because they've left their scent in there. And from there, he can work out what they've touched - turns out his mom likes to borrow his pens a lot. It's a stupidly small detail that doesn't mean anything in the long run, but its bigger implications are just so fucking _cool_. He also starts to really appreciate that his sheets are laundered every week because _man_ , teenagers _reek_.

One problem: where do you go from here? Jackson's got everything, but it's not enough. It's never enough. There's always a way to be _better_ , always something to strive for. He could try to kill Derek and take over as Alpha, be better, faster, stronger - but then he'd inherit all the other shit that Derek has on his plate, like his betas and the Alpha pack, and Jackson's not stupid enough to think that he can handle all those things plus what he's come to think of as 'real life'. He doesn't want the responsibility for other people that comes with Alpha-hood - he's seen the extent to which Derek's pack rely on him, look to him for approval, and he doesn't want to be on either side of that relationship, thanks.

Of course, Derek wants him to. Derek wants him to fall in line and do what he says, and all of Jackson's new wolf instincts want to obey. Three days after he's turned, Derek comes through his window at 2am like the total creeper he is, and even before he hears the sash sliding up, Jackson's awake because he knows his Alpha is near. Maybe he hears him, maybe he smells him, but either way, by the time Derek's feet hit the carpet, Jackson is already sitting up and biting back the urge to run to him and nuzzle him, bare his throat in submission. Jackson doesn't _do_ submission, especially not to _Derek_. When he breathes, he breathes in Derek, and something in the back of his mind relaxes. _Alpha's here, Alpha's got you._ He hates it - _Derek Hale_ , of all people, should not make him feel _safe_. He grits his teeth and greets Derek with his best flat stare.

Derek, for his part, just looks blankly back at him. Guy's not very expressive outside of mortal danger. He's probably giving off some kind of scent clue - dogs can tell how people feel by how they smell, right? - but Jackson isn't experienced enough yet to tell what it is. He still wants to roll over belly-up, though - an urge which he firmly quashes.

Then Derek's eyes go red, his mouth opens to reveal fangs and he _growls_ \- and Jackson really _does_ throw himself backwards to expose his neck and stomach. He sleeps bare-chested, which exposes him even further, but he's not thinking about that right now: he's just thinking how _good_ it feels to offer himself up to Derek like a dog. He even kind of wants to lick Derek's face, and that snaps him out of it because _no_. That's gross - plus, he knows what chin-licking means in dog-language and he _doesn't do submission_. He quickly scrambles upright again and meets Derek's eyes with as much dignity as he can muster - but Derek's smirking, just a little, like he knows he's won.

"I'm not part of your pack," Jackson snaps, and Derek stops smirking.

"Yes you are," he says. Funny - based on appearance, Jackson always expects his voice to be deeper, and every time its lightness surprises him. "I haven't let you go." And now he's back to his default slight frown. Jackson scowls right back.

"I don't _want_ to be part of your pack, asshole."

"Yes you do," replies Derek, with perfect equanimity. "Do you know what happens to Omega wolves, lone wolves? They get hunted down - easy targets, you see." He steps closer to the bed, and Jackson fights the urge to cower. "If you're in my pack, I can protect you"

"I don't want your _protection,_ " Jackson spits, leaning forward. In a flash, Derek is looming over him, and he automatically jerks backward in surprise.

"You _need_ me," says Derek, insistently, with a hint of reverberation - not quite a growl, but enough to unsettle Jackson. "There are enemies coming, and they'll come for a lone wolf even quicker. If you're lucky, they'll be hunters, who'll cut you in half to make sure you can't heal. Your death will at least be quick. If you're not, it'll be the Alpha pack, who'll take it _much_ slower." Derek leans right in, his voice down to almost a hiss. Jackson scrambles backwards, but Derek follows him, one knee on the bed, semi-straddling him. "You _need_ me," repeats Derek, eyes bleeding into red and Jackson can't take his eyes off them, every inch of his skin aware of Derek's body heat, of how it might feel if Derek lowered his weight on top of Jackson and pressed them together, body to body. He wants it, even needs it - the breathless, crushing weight on top of him, pushing him into the mattress, his desperate heart soothed at last.

But that's another thing to file under 'things Jackson Whittemore is not allowed to want', so he exhales to loosen the ache in his chest and considers his options.

"Fine," he says, trying to calm his heartbeat. "I believe you. I'll stay part of your pack." _For now_ , he mentally appends. Derek keeps staring at him. "What, you want it in writing?" he snaps, then flinches back as Derek lunges forward and bares his teeth. His nose is an inch from Jackson's, blurring his features, and all Jackson can see are his _eyes_ , narrowed and red. It makes him think of the albino girl at his primary school, but her eyes had been more pink than red; Derek's are vibrant crimson and obviously supernatural. Jackson gives in to the urge to look away and show his throat. It's fucking humiliating, but he's uncomfortably aware of just how easily Derek could tear his throat out right now.

Derek backs off, but not before leaning in further to sniff Jackson's neck in an obviously animalistic way. For one awful, exhilarating moment, Jackson thinks he's going to lick a stripe up his jugular, but instead he just moves back to stand beside the bed. Which is good, because Jackson doesn't know what he might have done if Derek _had_ licked him.

Derek stares at him for a long moment, his eyes no longer red.

"Don't fuck this up," he says at last, then he's out the window and onto the roof, a dark shape moving fast. Only his new enhanced senses let Jackson pick up the scratch of his nails on the tiles, the muffled thump when he hits the ground on the other side of the house.

Jackson doesn't close the window for a while.

~*~*~

The first clue he gets is when he stops being able to jerk off to anything but Derek.

Before this whole werewolf thing, Jackson didn't really think about much when jerking off, just focussed on the sensations. It wasn't fancy, but it was efficient. But now Derek's face keeps invading his jerk off sessions and it's getting ridiculous, not to mention fucking annoying. He doesn't necessarily even think of him in a sexy way: there's just some Pavlovian response whereby whenever he thinks about sex, he also thinks about Derek.

And it's not that Derek isn't objectively hot, because he is, but Jackson has never automatically associated a dude with sex before; he's more of a tits guy, to be honest. And Lydia had the _best_ tits - but they aren't what comes to mind when he casually slips a hand into his underwear to give himself a squeeze. Just Derek, the impression of Derek - broad shoulders, red eyes, sharp teeth.

(And if the teeth get him hot and the eyes get him hotter, well, nobody has to know).

~*~*~

He doesn't see Derek for two whole weeks. In the meantime, McCall comes to see him. Jackson probably shouldn't be surprised, but he is. He's barely seen McCall and his group at school, where you think they'd corner him - a glimpse across the cafeteria or classroom or field, but no-one's actually talked to him yet.

It rapidly becomes apparent that McCall thinks that now he's gotten over his little scaly problem and become a fully-fledged werewolf, they should be buddies. The moment Jackson realises this, he starts laughing, cutting McCall off mid-sentence. McCall looks startled, then resentful.

"We're not going to be _friends_ just because we're the same species, McCall. What the fuck are you on?"

"I'm trying to offer you some _help_ here," says McCall, clearly frustrated. "Believe me, Derek's not going to be much help."

"I don't want your _help_. I don't want Derek's either. I can cope on my own."

"Look, I know I'm not one to talk, but wolves are stronger in packs. A wolf _without_ a pack is a target for hunters and other wolves alike. I'm trying to save your life here!" Scott looks genuinely upset.

"Don't bother," Jackson sneers.

Scott eventually throws up his hands and leaves. Jackson doesn't bother to show him out.

He can't sleep that night. It's summer now, and tonight it gets so fucking hot that Jackson throws safety to the wind and sleeps with his window open. If the Alpha Pack want him, a bit of glass and wood isn't going to stop them anyway.

He wakes up with the covers mostly kicked off and a half-hard cock. He can't remember what he was dreaming about. He jacks off lazily, only half-awake, luxuriating in the warmth and softness of his bed.

The idea of Derek is more vivid like this, caught halfway between dream and waking: the weight of him pinning Jackson down, big hands hot on his shoulders. As always, his eyes are red. Not lucid enough to feel the usual shame, Jackson moves his hand faster. The fantasy is so strong that he can _smell_ him-

No, that's not a dream. There's a figure on his windowsill, caught in a crouch. His face is in shadow, but he's shirtless and the moonlight falls bright across his back. Jackson recognises that tattoo. He pulls harder, faster at his cock, and Derek shifts so Jackson can see his face with the slightly-open mouth, his human eyes fixed on Jackson's hand when he shudders, arches a little and comes all over it, a few muffled sounds escaping as he convulses through his orgasm.

They stay there for a few moments, each frozen in his place. Then Jackson raises his come-covered hand from his belly, like he's going to - he doesn't know _what_ he means to do, and he doesn't find out because Derek promptly bolts. Just - there one second, gone the next. Jackon doesn't even see him move, only hears him on roof then the ground for a second before he's out of range, running far, running fast.

It's not safe for Jackson to leave his window open. He does anyway.

~*~*~

Two days later, a familiar-unfamiliar smell turns up around Jackson's house, smelling a bit like Derek, and it drives Jackson up the wall until he realises that it must be a member of the pack. Erica and Boyd are still missing as far as he knows, and Scott had reassured him that he'd recognise Peter's scent instantly because it smelt off, so it must be Isaac. Whom he's always thought of as 'Isaac', despite not particularly liking or even really knowing him, because they were introduced at an age before it became appropriate to call other boys by their last names. The only other guy he calls by his first name is Danny, which is a very strange thought.

Isaac doesn't come to talk to him; Jackson doesn't even catch a glimpse of him. He tells himself he doesn't want to see Isaac anyway, and takes to closing his blinds when he's out.

A few days of this and Jackson's seriously considering demanding Isaac tell him where Derek lives nowadays and confronting him. Now, normally he'd just put the incident on the list of 'Things That Happened And Now We Don't Talk About Them', because Jackson isn't into dudes and even if he were Derek is a lot older than him and still gives off a distinct serial-killer vibe - but apparently he is, despite all the reasons he shouldn't be, into Derek. And Derek is into him because _everyone_ is into Jackson. Plus, not even Derek is creepy enough to think spying on a teenage boy's masturbation session is totally normal, devoid-of-sexual-overtones behaviour. Jackson thinks.

Then Derek turns up at school. Honestly, Jackson doesn't know why no-one seems to question why there's a twenty-something brooding and staring intimidatingly in the hallways, but that's not his problem. His problem is finding somewhere to skip his next class and talk with Derek as he so obviously wants.

He wants to use the locker room, for tradition's sake, but there's a class in gym right now and they can't risk someone coming in to go to the toilet or something. So he takes Derek out to the parking lot, behind the science building, and hopes that none of the technicians come out for a smoke.

"You need to stop leaving your window open at night," says Derek once they're out there. His stance is solid, feet apart and shoulders open, but not in a deliberate way, Jackson thinks: more of a reflex.

"What, and you had to corner me at school to tell me that? For a guy who claims to care about my wellbeing, you don't seem to care about me keeping my grades up." It's a deliberately louche, goading thing to say, and Derek predictably narrows his eyes.

"You can worry about your grades yourself. I'm concerned with _keeping you alive_ , which you don't seem to care about nearly enough."

"But coming into school just to tell me that? It looks suspicious, Derek." He sighs dramatically and leans in a little. "I guess I'll just have to spread the rumour that you're my older boyfriend so people don't start thinking you're blackmailing me or something."

"I could be blackmailing you into being my boyfriend," says Derek, then frowns. "No, don't imply anything like that. I don't want to be arrested on suspicion of statutory rape. Isn't your father a lawyer?"

"Yeah, a contract lawyer; I wouldn't worry." Jackson's tone turns intimate. "You can fuck me as much as you like, and no-one has to know." Derek's eyebrows go up; Jackson presses on: "You want that, right? That's why you watched me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," says Derek, but his voice is weak.

"C'mon, you know you want it." Jackson grabs at his crotch in a deliberately lewd gesture. It's vulgar and suggestive, and the tips of Dereks' ears go pink.

"I," he says, and seems to get stuck there. He's still staring at Jackson's crotch. Fine, Jackson can work with that.

"You want to watch again? I can do that." His voice is low and coaxing as he unzips his pants, hardly hearing the scrape over the blood rushing in his ears. They're outside in a school parking lot, where anyone could just come out or drive up and see them. See him, with his cock out, jerking off.

He doesn't care. He just wants to please his Alpha.

Derek's still silent as Jackson starts jacking his half-hard cock, but his face has gone into that intense stare which usually promises violence. Jackson would be worried, but the tips of his ears are still pink. Plus, with his new enhanced senses, he can smell something kind of spicy coming off Derek, and it doesn't take a genius to work out what it is.

He tilts his head back as he slowly works his cock, more on instinct than anything: his body knows how to tell Derek what he wants, even when he doesn't know what that is.

Conscious of the fact that he's putting on a show, Jackson gets into it. He doesn't try any of that ridiculous over-the-top porn star moaning, but he rolls his hips and takes it slow and makes sure Derek gets a good look at what Jackson's offering him.

When it's over and he's contemplating the pros and cons of licking the come off his hand, Derek finally manages to grind out:

"You're sixteen."

"Yep," says Jackson. "C'mon, don't try telling me you care about laws _now_. I've seen you break enough of them without thinking."

"You're _sixteen_ ," Derek repeats. His teeth are tightly clenched; Jackson can see the strain in his jaw.

"That's not a no," says Jackson - and, because what the hell, licks the come off his fingers.

~*~*~

A month later, this is how it works:

Derek comes in through his window at two am. Jackson's been waiting since eleven, doing history homework because he might as well do something productive, but barely able to pay attention.

It's three days before the full moon. When he's not concentrating, his fingertips tingle.

He hears him before he sees him: the tell-tale tapping of claws on brick. He looks up from his work to meet Derek's eyes in the mirror. They're blood red, in what Jackson knows is a deliberate intimidation tactic. Sudden alertness sharpens his senses; his heartbeat speeds up.

He's left the window wide open and the room's freezing, but Derek doesn't close it after swinging his legs over the sill to land, cat-like and silent, on the floorboards. Jackson doesn't care: werewolves run hot, after all.

Derek studies him for a moment. Jackson doesn't turn to face him just yet, letting Derek look him over and pretending to finish off a sentence - in truth, he can't concentrate enough to read right now, never mind write a coherent phrase. The full moon and the presence of his Alpha is setting off sparks in his hindbrain. The weight of Derek's gaze makes him feel hot; he doesn't even know why he bothered to get dressed after his shower for this.

(Jackson always showers beforehand; washes the smell of other people off him so Derek can mark him up instead).

Derek takes a step forward. Jackson puts down his pen, puts his hands flat on the desk. He can taste buzzing at the back of his tongue. Fuck, he wants this _so badly_. He barely pays attention in class, runs on autopilot in lacrosse practice, is hardly maintaining the few friendships he has because he can't _focus_. What they don't tell you about near-death (or just plain death) experiences is that afterwards, everything seems so terribly _dull_.

(Maybe that's because that's not true for other people. Maybe Jackson is just broken. Maybe Jackson has been broken for a long time and this is just the final proof).

As usual, Derek likes to rough Jackson up a bit first: he moves with wolf-speed to bend Jackson over the desk, a hot, solid presence at his back. Jackson falls forward in a practiced way to catch himself first on his palms, then lowers himself to his elbows. Derek comes with him, face buried in Jackson's neck. He doesn't bite, which surprised Jackson at first; rather, he prefers to lick, more like a dog than a wolf. Derek doesn't take kindly at all to dog jokes, though, so of course Jackson makes it a priority to stick at least one canine allusion in every conversation they have.

They do say it's the little things that keep a relationship going.

Derek drags his teeth across his neck, and Jackson shudders, cock throbbing; he doesn't even know when he got hard. Derek could bite, they both know he could, finally give Jackson what he wants, but they also both know that he won't. He won't do anything that might leave a mark. Oh, he slips up sometimes, and Jackson wakes up with pale green bruises on his hips or a tiny scar on his neck, his wrist, but then the next time Derek will touch him even less than usual, as if to make up for it.

Derek pulls him up from the desk by the scruff of the neck and flings him on the bed: Jackson lands on his hands and knees on the mattress with a muted thud and Derek crawls up behind him and starts in on his neck again, covering Jackson's body with his own. Jackson wishes they were naked, that he could feel the bare skin of Derek's chest against his back, but that's not how they do things. Derek doesn't even take off his jacket in these sessions, despite how casually and often he usually strips bare to the waist.

Jackson bows his spine, pressing his ass into Derek's crotch - at which point Derek lets go of him and stands up, leaving Jackson to swallow down his disappointment and let his hips fall back down to the mattress. He knows that if he kicks up a fuss about it, Derek will leave. He rolls over onto his back and watches Derek take a couple of steps backwards to sit in the computer chair, knees wide apart and his hands resting on them, making it clear he's hard. Anyone else and Jackson would say it was calculated, showing off, but no, he's realised pretty quickly that Derek just sits like that.

Jackson starts to jerk off slowly despite the gnawing edge of desperation prickling his back, making him restless. The longer he draws it out, the longer he gets Derek like this: fingers digging into his knees, hard cock tenting out his jeans. Jackson shifts a bit, getting comfortable; settling in for the long haul. He rubs his free hand over his chest, which he doesn't do when he's alone even though it feels pretty good, but he's gathered like Derek likes his tits, so he draws attention to them appropriately. Sure enough, Derek's eyes flick rapidly between his cock and his nipples, like he's not sure which he'd rather lick first.

Not, of course, that there's any licking them anywhere in the immediate future. Jackson thinks it's a stupid place to draw a line, but nothing so far has got Derek to change his mind, so it looks like it's Jackson jerking off with Derek in the same room for the forseeable. Right now, he'd settle for Derek jerking off here instead of fleeing out the window to beat off in the woods or whatever.

He just wants to see Derek's cock. Nothing weird about that.

He has an idea, though. An idea involving the lube in his nightstand, as it happens, because he tried it beforehand so there wouldn't be any unfortunate accidents or potential for unintentional hilarity. He hopes.

Derek frowns when Jackson lets go of his dick and reaches for the drawer instead, and the frown only deepens when Jackson pulls out the lube. Then Jackson opens it and slicks up his index finger, and Derek's eyes go wide and the smell of arousal in the air suddenly thickens noticeably.

_Well._ Jackson keeps his hand off his cock and his eyes on Derek's face as he starts slowly working his hole, smearing lube around it, pressing at the rim. It feels good, but the pink in Derek's cheeks make it better.

Derek's mouth is slightly open as Jackson watches him watching Jackson as he presses his finger slowly, cautiously inside. It feels weird though not unpleasant, like it did last time, but this time it hopefully shouldn't take Jackson quite as much fumbling to make it good. He wriggles again, trying to find the most comfortable position to do this in, and ends up half-sitting, back braced against the pillows. He goes back to lightly stroking his cock to distract himself from the weirdness, circling his thumb around the sensitive head. He feels his asshole contract around his finger, and silently marvels at how the guys in the porn he checked out for research made this look so _easy_. He's tight, damnit! But then, everything comes easier with practice. Jackson should know.

Jackson also knows that sometimes you got to push yourself beyond what you thought were your limits to actually get anywhere, which is why he only pauses to squeeze out some more lube before trying for two fingers. It's difficult, even with werewolf healing powers taking the edge off the pain, but then he imagines Derek's thick fingers in him instead and the pain is _perfect_. He starts jacking his cock again, faster this time, and chances another look at Derek.

Who's got his teeth dug so hard into his lower lip that it's going to start bleeding in a minute, He's gripping the edge of the chair, white-knuckled, and his lazy sprawl has changed into being curled in on himself a little, slouching forward. His face is decidedly pink, which is hotter than Jackson would have thought. Jackson stares openly at his crotch, partly to be provocative but mainly out of honest want. It would hurt, he knows. He can barely take two fingers: a cock would split him open. And it would be _amazing_. He wants Derek to take him apart and hurt him like that. He wants Derek's marks on him: not just scent marking but bruises, so everyone can see - overenthusiastic teenagers and their lovebites, but the joke's on them because Derek's not a teenager, he'd an Alpha werewolf and that's why his marks would stay on Jackson when nothing else seems to hurt him because they're _motherfucking werewolves_ and they can do _anything_.

When Jackson's deliberately calculated heavy breathing at last gives way to real moans, eyes still fixed on the bulge in Derek's jeans, Derek snaps. He slides out of the chair, falling to his knees and frantically undoing his pants in the same motion. His cock, when he pulls it out without bothering to even pull down his underwear, is thick and red and objectively speaking nothing he hasn't seen in porn or on other boys or on himself, but to Jackson's eyes it looks like everything he's wanted for the past three months. Derek jacks himself hard and fast, face screwed up like he's in pain. Jackson wonders if he always jerks off like he's trying to hurt himself.

Jackson kind of wants to try for three fingers, just because, but only manages to get the tip in before he feels his orgasm building and he stops that and concentrate instead of jamming his fingers in and out of his ass as hard as he can, finger-fucking himself as best he can. A few times he even manages to hit his prostate, making his legs jerk and his cock jump in his grasp. His eyes keep trying to close, but he keeps watching Derek, who's staring fixedly at where Jackson's fingers enter his body, mouth agape, still fucking his fist. He looks wilder than Jackson is used to. It's probably just a trick of the light, but Jackson swears that his irises are a little red.

Jackson comes loudly and artlessly, black clouding the middle of his vision, followed by sparks, curling in on himself, shoulders coming off the bed - when did he slip down? - as he jerks through his orgasm.

When he comes down, still feeling little aftershocks, Derek is still jerking off, as frantic as Jackson's ever seen him. His eyes are shut tight, his teeth puncturing holes in his lower lip. He looks agonised. Now that Jackson can hear anything aside from his own frankly embarrassing moaning, he can hear Derek's contained heavy breathing, interspersed with the occasional bitten-off, high-pitched, close-mouted whimper.

What he really wants is for Derek to come on him: a fantasy which has been getting him off reliably for some weeks now. But he's scared that if he moves, Derek will make a run for it. So he stays lying there, relaxation seeping through his limbs, watching Derek.

Derek falls forward onto his hands and knees when he comes, bracing himself with one arm while he comes on Jackson's bedroom carpet, his head bowed. Jackson wishes he could see his face.

Derek looks up abruptly, and whatever he must see on Jackson's face, he obviously doesn't like it, because he vanishes. Jackson's never seen him move that quickly: he just goes from kneeling on Jackson's floor to out the window. The sound of his feet hitting the dirt gives Jackson deja-vu. He wants to yell after him - _'Fuckin' coward!'_ maybe - but his parents are asleep in their room and he doesn't have a good excuse for waking them up, nor for the semen on the floor.

Speaking of which. Jackson finally takes his fingers out of his ass and rolls off the bed, legs still wobbly, and crawls over to the small puddle. He started producing about twice the normal amount of come after he was turned, so he guesses it's a werewolf thing.

Well, more for him. He bends his elbows and lowers his face to the floor, ass sticking up in the air. This close, he can smell the salt of Derek's sweat and the sharpness of his come. Tentatively, he flicks out his tongue to taste it. He feels a little ridiculous, like those girls in porn where they wear collars and pretend to be dogs, but he then he gets a taste of it - the bitter, sharp, iron taste - and stops caring what he looks like altogether. He just goes for it: some ends up on his chin and even a bit on his nose, but he frantically licks up as much as he can and when he can't get any more off the thick, scratchy carpet he drops to the floor, belly-down, smearing it over his own come on his stomach, his cock.

He jerks off again there, lying in Derek's come, some of it smeared on the hand he uses on his cock. It isn't until afterwards that he realises he could have used some to finger himself with.

Jackson's a werewolf now. He can do anything. That just means there'll have to be a next time.


End file.
